


A Moment of Weakness

by MoanDiary



Series: Together Alone [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Season/Series 04, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: A Saturday night alone at home on her laptop usually doesn't involve this much crying. Things get harder when the love of your life is in Hell.





	A Moment of Weakness

It’s a moment of weakness. 

Uncharacteristic, but it’s a Saturday night, Trixie’s at Dan’s, Chloe’s three glasses into a bottle of red wine, and— _god_ —she misses him. 

Typing _Lucifer_ into Google yields a lot of search results, obviously, and none are what she’s looking for. _“Lucifer Morningstar”_ cuts it down significantly, but the first several pages are still mostly weird Satanist and Christian websites. With _“Lucifer Morningstar”+Lux,_ though, she strikes the jackpot.

Some local news stories about events held at Lux over the years, many containing invariably suggestive quotes from the owner himself. “Lux’s first annual Thanksgiving Afterparty comes with my personal guarantee—a well-stuffed turkey or your money back” is her favorite. She sprays a mouthful of wine onto her laptop screen, and mirth wars with longing as she hastily dabs at it with a paper towel, her face stretched in a grin and tears pricking at her eyes. She can hear him saying it as clearly as if he were standing beside her, leaning down to beam at her with his trademark suggestive grin.

A recent gossip column speculates about his absence, noting that the L.A. club scene has been sorely lacking since Lux’s abrupt closure, that Morningstar’s disappearance likely has something to do with his intermittent involvement with the LAPD over the past few years. More right than they know.

There’s a long list of amateurish YouTube videos. Most of him playing piano and singing at Lux, his voice slicing through the din of chattering clubgoers. The first one—not even a close-up, just a shaky video across the room of him in profile, swaying gently with the music—gets the waterworks going. But she keeps clicking the next one, even with tears streaming down her cheeks. His omnivorous appreciation for music is on full display, as well as the full range of his moods. Everything from Beyonce to Bing Crosby to Beethoven, sometimes bursting with energy and playfulness, sometimes sly and seductive, sometimes muted and contemplative.

One particular video strikes her most keenly. It was shot by someone standing a few feet behind him, aimed over his shoulder down at his hands as they dance over the keys. She doesn’t recognize the song, just that it’s wordless and melancholy, and the video activates the sense memory of approaching him from this angle and sliding onto the bench next to him, bumping his shoulder affectionately as his playing trips to a halt. The thought that she can’t do that now, will never be able to do that again, is an acute pain, like something vital has been cut out of her.

Sandwiched in between the videos of him performing is one clearly shot in his penthouse titled “HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMANDA!!!!.” The woman recording the video has her phone in selfie mode and her pretty, heavily mascaraed face dominates the foreground of the shot.

“—no, you do it, do it, Lucifer—“

Several other voices giggling in the background. 

“Oh, I’ll do it, alright.” A familiar salacious purr close to the phone, then the background of the video abruptly tilts as if the woman holding it has been tackled onto the couch. There’s a brief, confused moment as the phone changes hands and then Lucifer’s face looms into shot looking fully debauched, hair disheveled and a smear of lipstick just to the right of his mouth.

“Amanda, your friend Jen asked me to record this as a birthday gift since you were too sick to come out tonight. Best of luck on your next trip around the sun. When you get better, you all can come pay me a visit again. In the meantime, Jen can tell you what you—“ His birthday message cuts off with a truly obscene groan as his eyes dart downwards. “Oh, Jen, you naughty girl!”

The phone is summarily discarded, still recording, landing with a bounce beside him, camera facing up at the penthouse’s reflective ceiling, giving a suddenly, shockingly perfect perspective on a shirtless Lucifer writhing on his couch, entangled with the tanned, curvaceous, undeniably beautiful Jen, whose hand is working slowly and rhythmically inside his unbuttoned trousers. Another woman sitting on the floor next to them leans over and kisses him thoroughly and he laughs throatily before reaching above his head to swat blindly at the phone until the video abruptly ends.

Chloe slams the lid of her laptop closed, letting out a single shocked bark of laughter. Her face feels like it’s on fire. Other parts do too. She sits in silence for a long moment, certain that the front door will open unexpectedly and Dan or Maze will waltz in. But the night is quiet and it’s late, and she is entirely alone.

She opens her laptop and watches the video again, pausing it before the second woman leans over Lucifer to kiss him. He is truly in his element. Beautiful in that how-did-I-not-realize-he-wasn’t-human-earlier way, his face the image of pleased rapture, the muscles in his torso flexing and twisting, one knee bent casually and an arm reaching out to the woman on the floor next to him. A Renaissance sculpture made flesh.

After a long moment staring at the image, she looks away guiltily. How many times, and in how many ways, had he offered her the opportunity to experience this firsthand? And now that he’s not here, she’s watching someone else’s time with him like a desperate voyeur. But then a voice speaks up in the back of her head, a voice internalized from years of hearing it, from loving its owner dearly.

_You know you’re more than welcome to take a peek, Detective. You’ve seen all the parts of me I’m ashamed of, so feel free to take a gander at the parts I hold in particularly high regard. I would never begrudge you of all people a wank, especially if it’s because you’re thinking of me._

She goes back to the search results page and, after a long pause, finger hovering over the trackpad, she turns off Safe Search. A new result appears, high in the list…linking to YouPorn. 

XXX BOOTLEG MISTY CANYONS AND LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR! HOTTTT

Her mouth falls open as she huffs out a surprised laugh. She really shouldn’t be surprised, though. Of _course_ he’s been in porn. She clicks on the link and the video starts, clearly cut from some longer video, uploaded in 2013, years before they met.

The video opens on a woman’s near-perfect, ample décolletage in a lacy push-up bra as she dances seductively around a pole. The camera pulls back to reveal a somewhat-short-of-believable set depicting a nightclub. Not Lux, or even close, but Chloe gets the idea.

“Well, my dear, you’re very talented, but I’m afraid we’ve already _filled_ all the our...open positions.” The camera reveals Lucifer, clearly enjoying this too much to really be selling it, reclining on a cheap couch facing the pole, a few more of the buttons on his shirt unbuttoned than is his custom.

“I really want this job, though.” Misty insists throatily, stepping down from the pole and between Lucifer’s legs. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Oh, I have something you can take.” A grin he’s been obviously struggling to repress breaks across his face as Misty straddles his lap and captures his mouth in a filthy kiss.

Chloe takes a deep breath and unbuttons her jeans, slipping one hand inside. She’s already wet from her two brief viewings of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMANDA!!!!” and doesn’t bother to hold back a pleased moan as she slides a finger between her folds.

She opens her eyes to find that Misty has pushed Lucifer’s shirt off his shoulders and he’s released her immaculate breasts from her bra and is—she can’t think of another way to describe it—absolutely going to town on them. Compared to normal porn, Misty’s breathless exclamations sound completely authentic as his dark head moves from one nipple to the other.

Chloe puts her free hand up her shirt and thumbs a nipple, trying to imagine Lucifer’s mouth on it, him making the same low, happy humming noises he’s making in the video, stubble scraping against her as he nuzzles in between her breasts. Her breath catches in a hitching gasp.

On her screen, Lucifer is standing and proudly whipping off his trousers. Chloe feels like her cheeks are on the verge of bursting into flame, her fingers unconsciously quickening between her legs as she takes in Lucifer’s erection. It’s big, sure (he never lies), but it’s also _pretty_. She can’t think of a better word for it than that. Smooth and straight and gently curving towards his stomach.

“Mmm,” Misty hums, kneeling and licking a long stripe up it from base to tip.

The camera, Chloe notes distantly, is moving abnormally. Where in normal porn she’d expect it to linger on Misty’s face as she takes his cock into her mouth, it seems to be drifting upwards, panning up Lucifer’s torso to linger on the rise and fall of his chest and his pleased expression. His eyes are heavy-lidded, gazing down at Misty and intermittently sliding closed under his contracting brows, his mouth parting around soft, gasping breaths.

Chloe chuckles breathlessly as she realizes that whoever was manning the camera was yet another victim of Lucifer’s raw magnetism, seemingly incapable of not turning their attention back to him even when it ruined the shot they were supposed to be getting.

Misty pulls her mouth off of Lucifer’s dick with an audible pop and the camera jerks back downwards abruptly to track her movement as she crawls seductively up his body, dipping to kiss him again and rubbing her pussy against the head of his cock.

Lucifer grins against Misty’s mouth and in a split second has flipped her underneath him. He positions himself and then slides steadily into her. Misty lets out a wordless noise of undeniable, authentic pleasure, wrapping her legs around his narrow waist, one heel digging into the firm flesh of his ass.

As erotic as the sight of his cock was, watching the muscles of his back and ass and legs working in perfect concert to thrust into Misty is somehow better. Chloe tries to press two fingers inside herself but her jeans are limiting her range of motion, so she shoves them and her underwear down her legs, sighing when she can return to touching herself unimpeded. She imagines Lucifer moving above her, dark eyes focused on her face, imagines looking over his shoulder into the reflective ceiling of his penthouse and watching the muscles of his back tense rhythmically.

Misty digs her nails into Lucifer’s shoulders and Chloe can feel it. Can imagine dragging them down his shoulder blades. Scarred in the video—wingless—but smooth, perfect, satiny skin for her. Her fallen angel.

Misty is making a high-pitched breathy noise with every thrust which Chloe tries to block out so she can focus instead on Lucifer’s quickening breath, his hips snapping faster.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, ohhhh—“ Misty’s entire body seizes and her back arches off the couch. Lucifer chuckles triumphantly and braces his weight effortlessly on one hand, bringing the other down between Misty’s legs.

“You have another one in you, don’t you, darling?”

Misty nods frantically, eyes screwed shut.

Chloe rubs firmly on her clit, imagining his fingers playing her expertly, like a fine instrument. The orgasm that’s been lying in wait since she started touching herself starts to rear its head, her muscles tensing. Gasping, she opens her eyes to watch fixedly as Lucifer’s movements stutter. He makes a single, choked noise and his whole body tenses, and tenses again, and he lets out a long, happy moan that’s what finally does Chloe in.

Her vision whites out for a long moment. When she comes back to herself, the video’s ended and she realizes there are fresh tears on her cheeks. She pants through the aftershocks, collapsing backwards and staring up at the ceiling. 

She wipes futilely at her cheeks. They aren’t the first tears she’s shed and won’t be the last. Tears for her broken heart. Tears for Lucifer, alone in Hell. Tears for the sex they never had. Tears for the cases they won’t close. Tears for Monopoly games that won’t be played. Tears for songs he won’t sing.

She reaches over and snaps her laptop closed again.


End file.
